


Day Tripper

by d1m1tree (Trezero)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Mr. Robot (TV), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, And a Hug, Angst and Humor, Gen, Headcanon, don't ask me how i came up with this idea, imma be honest i wrote this because elliot really deserves a break, stay tuned for some trivia at the end lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trezero/pseuds/d1m1tree
Summary: There's not much to do in prison. So sometimes, Elliot dreams.





	Day Tripper

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is not my first attempt at writing something, this is certainly the first time I've managed to finish a work! It's a peculiar idea I've had after watching the third season of Mr Robot: I've been a fan of the show and of the band Queen for a long time, and after seeing the movie, I just had to tie the two together! 
> 
> This was planned as a one-shot, but I am actually considering turning this into a longer fic, tell me what you guys think! I would be following a similar storyline, but more drawn out and developed. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't claim to personally know or accurately portray any of the real people mentioned here, nor do I claim that any of the events are real. Please don't sue me. 
> 
> Stay tuned for some light trivia at the end! 
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated, and criticism is always welcome! 
> 
> Songs used:
> 
> Who Loves The Sun - Velvet Underground  
> Liar - Queen  
> '39 - Queen 
> 
> Title is a song by The Beatles.
> 
> With that, enjoy!

 

There’s no need for a mirror in Elliot Alderson’s daily life. Every morning, he gets up, gets dressed, and goes outside, without ever taking a second look at himself. Why would he need to? It’s better this way, really. Reflections make for pauses, pauses make for contemplation. And contemplation is the last thing he needs.

Keeping Mr. Robot out is, and will always be, his priority.

 

Every time he’s in bed, he is reminded.

 

Reminded of his father.

Reminded of Angela.

Reminded of Five-nine, Tyrell.

Reminded of Sharla.

 

So, he stops trying to sleep.

 

These days Elliot doesn’t really know what’s real and what’s not anymore. His friends, family, all of them seem like distant memories, a shitty movie on an old VHS, a cheap sitcom on a dirty cinema screen, an old rerun of a forgotten movie on a late-night channel. He’s watching the scenes play out. With his back to the projector, alone. There is a thick mist between him and reality, and even the few anchors he has, the routine, Leon, the journal, all of them are but a broken flashlight in a deep, dark cave. The days blend together and while he’s sure that this is what he wanted, at some point, the mediocrity slowly gnaws away at his mind, pushing him further into insanity.

 

He rarely sees Angela anymore. Or Darlene. Or anyone he cares about. He finds himself never thinking, just doing.

 

As much as the dullness haunts him, it’s also familiar, warm. Actions, arranged how he needs them to be, each condition fulfilled until the final variable hits zero. A basic AI, with everything figured out. His “normal” life is more like a neural network: everchanging, adapting, always learning, but just as unstable, chaotic, and unpredictable. Repetition may be stomping him into the ground, but repetition is safer than entropy.

Every night, without fail, he has doubts. Doubts about himself, the regiment, his life, staying here.

 

And all of this would drive have driven him long to the edges of his rage, has it not been for one thing.

 

He hasn’t seen him for quite a while now. Something had graced him after the Adderall. Whether it is as simple as he thinks it is, or him planning something, just for now, he can allow himself to relax. He can allow himself to lose his sense of time and will to the loop. He’s always aware, though. And each night, he checks the corners twice.

 

No matter how much he may try to ignore it or subdue it, he knows that it will always come back. And every time he manages to suppress it, that haunting dread, that void begging to be filled, it comes back stronger. On the hour. Every night. He can only have normality without fulfillment, and he can only have fulfillment with Mr. Robot.

 

He’s starting to think that there is no escape.

 

On one particular night, he just can’t take it anymore.

He lies awake in bed- Has been for hours, desperately trying to clean out the nooks and corners of his mind so that sleep may finally take him, but it never does.

 

So, he cries. Because Elliot is his own devil. His own problem. And there is nobody he can pin this on, not even Mr. Robot.

 

His crying is low and almost inaudible, but by the time he’s finished, the pillow case is awfully soggy. He tosses the disgusting thing away, and curls up on the mattress. He tries not to think about anything, and somewhere amidst a heated argument with himself, everything goes black.

 

Maybe he’s falling, Elliot thinks. Or failing.

 

* * *

 

The first thing that he registers is sunlight, and a noisy street. He can’t open his eyes, _doesn’t want to,_ rather. So instead, he groans and rolls on his stomach, wanting to sink further into the bedsheets. The pillows feel soft, and yet rough against his skin. It’s pleasant, and reminds him of the nice bed he had when he was a kid.

 

 Wait, pillows? 

 

**_< Who lo-oves the sun  
Who cares that it makes plants grow>_ **

 

A radio is playing in the background. He doesn’t recognize the band. They sound old, like something his dad would listen to. Maybe someone turned on the retro station.  

**_< Who ca-ares what it does since you broke my heart>_ **

_  
_ Someone’s singing along now.

 

Elliot forces himself to open his eyes.

 

**_< Who lo-oves the sun?>_ **

 

It dawns on him that he’s not in the same room. He doesn’t remember his bed being so big, and the room being so sunny and spacious. There’s a small voice at the back of his head urging him to go back to sleep, to enjoy the coziness a little longer, but Elliot shakes himself awake, and panic immediately sets in.

**_< Who lo-oves the sun?>_ **

Has he been kidnapped? Is this another hallucination? Is Mr. Robot playing his tricks again, trying to “protect” him? Trying to distract him?

 

**_< Not everyone…>  _ **

 

Standing in front of the bed, in the same relaxed and careless manner as _he_ always does, a man vaguely familiar. He’s seen him somewhere before. The clothes, the hair, the teeth for Pete’s sake… But he can’t quite put his finger on it. He sings to the tune of the radio, which he sees now is a small box next to him on the counter, and fiddles with his sleeve, as if he’s waiting for something. His voice is nothing short of captivating, and is as painfully familiar as all of him. No matter how hard he tries to focus, the man is fuzzy around the edges, slightly blurry, only sharp enough so that he can make out his expression from nearby. He’s not actually here, Elliot thinks.

 

The music is quickly lost to static, and Elliot is pulled back into reality. Or rather, its semblance. In a desperate attempt he tries to pinch himself, hoping to wake up back in his bleak and lifeless room. It doesn’t work, of course it doesn’t.

 

The man at the counter must’ve seen his confusion, as he simply chuckles and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Elliot.

 

“On the other hand,” He pulls away, just as quickly.  “you probably shouldn’t. Might just kill me faster.”

 

“Who-“

 

“Now before you start screaming,” he does a few hand gestures, “like you usually do when something like this happens, let me have a smoke.” The nonchalantness of it all reminds him of Mr. Robot yet again. Except with a thick British accent.

_Are you him? Is this another one of your tricks? What are you trying to protect me from?_

 

“You should at least look around before you ask so many questions, darling.”

 

Frantically, Elliot gets out of bed. He’s in a completely unfamiliar place: A sunny room, with vintage furniture, taller ceilings, beige tones, and piles upon piles of clothing on the floor. The radio has gone completely silent at this point, and he can hear the city come to life outside.

 

Everything feels old. As if he entered some sort of time capsule, away from the troubles of present day.

 

Right across the room is an open window. Elliot looks at the strange man standing behind him. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Elliot, instead focusing on finishing his cigarette, as if giving him some sort of privacy to come to terms with whatever the hell is happening.

 

Slowly, Elliot steps to the window.

 

It’s morning: judging by the way people tiredly trot along the sidewalk, and the shopkeepers remove their blinds. Despite the oncoming wave of stress and work, everything seems oddly peaceful and serene, and some of that serenity almost washes over him.

 

Then, he realizes that the cars are driving on the wrong side of the road. Then, he notices the kind of cars the people are driving, and what kind of clothes they are wearing. _Then_ , he walks away from the window and sees the calendar hung up on one of the walls: September 1971.

 

Elliot freezes like a deer in the headlights. He takes a few shaken steps back, leans on something that’s probably a table, and slowly covers his head with his hands.

Normally he’d choke this up to some sort of elaborate delusion, or a high gone wrong, but something tells him that it’s neither of those things.

_am I trapped in his delusions again?_

_how did this happen._

_am I in a coma?_

_am I dead?_

_am I-_

  
“ELLIOT.” His panic is interrupted. “Please calm down. You’re _okay_ , you’re not _dead._ Well, I am but that’s not the point…“ The man is standing uncomfortably close to him, his eyes wide with concern.

 

Elliot screams. “Why am I here? How am I here? And who the hell are you!?” He wants to back further away into the wall.

 

In this moment, the strange man is very sharp, and very real. He grabs Elliot by his shoulders, not too tight but enough to keep him still, and the cold feeling in his gut sizzles and starts to dissolve.

 

“Dear, it’s going to be alright.” He speaks loud and clear through Elliot’s erratic breathing.  “Just please, listen to me. I’m trying to help you.”

He’s not malicious, or angry, and that makes Elliot feel just a little better. Maybe he’s not in danger after all. But it’s too early to judge that.

 

“If you want be to calm down, telling me your name and how you know mine is probably a good fucking start.”

 

The man looks vaguely offended, but keeps talking: “You wanted a change of pace. This is your chance. Not everything is life and death. As for… How I know you, honestly it’s better if you don’t question it.”

 

As if reading his thoughts: “He won’t reach you here, dear. You’ve got me to worry about instead.”

 

Elliot scoffs. This is unlike Mr. Robot, but he is too tired, too pissed off about everything to care. “And why should I believe you? You’re what, better than him?” He shakes his head. “You’re going to drive me into my fucking grave just as much as he will.”

 

The man laughs again.

 

“Darling, what do you think I gain from this? Whatever he wants from you, I don’t give a shit. And you shouldn’t either. Have some fun, look around you! It’s the seventies, most people don’t even know what a computer _is_! There are no vicious hackers after you.”

 

No Dark Army. No Five-Nine. No revolution. No fsociety.

 

Well, maybe there is something to this, delusion or not. Computers are an inherent part of his life: his job, his conviction, his connections. But he’s tired. Tired of everything going wrong, the world making no sense. He’s tried escaping before. Maybe this is his chance.

 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

 

The man, once again, looks as if he’d just been strongly offended.

 

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” He swats away with his hands. “Why don’t you have a look in the mirror? ”

 

Elliot turns around. There’s an old mirror affixed to the wall. “What? …Why?”

 

“Don’t question it!” His voice seems far away, like he’s talking from the other end of a long corridor.

 

Before he can get an answer, the mysterious man is gone. No sound of shut door, no footsteps. As if he was never there to begin with.

 

His pack of cigarettes lies empty on the counter.

 

…Which only assures Elliot further that he has finally gone insane.

But strangely enough, he doesn’t feel scared. He almost feels at ease, as if he can’t for the love of him, muster up the energy to care about the stability of his mental state.

 

_Don’t question it._

 

So, Elliot goes to look in the mirror.

 

His face is the same. Well, almost. His jaw seems, off, feels off, and when he opens his mouth and checks, he realizes that he’s got a massive overbite, much bigger than the one he had before. He doesn’t realize how much it _bothers_ him before he tries to fix his posture and look less like a hunched rabbit, just to make the teeth pop less. His hair is longer, and his clothes... well he doesn’t even fucking know where to start there. But he’s still the same person. Is he? He looks… similar. Similar to someone. Someone he saw not so long ago. He scratches his head but can’t remember.

 

He digs through what he assumes is the wardrobe, in hopes of getting properly dressed. Denim jackets, colorful sleeves, tight jeans… Well he really must be in the 70s, then. He’s certain that at least half of this is too tight and too flashy, but at the same time, examining all of the weird patterns and colors captivates him so much that he spends a full fifteen minutes just looking through the closet.

 

He picks out some normal clothes. Well, as normal as they will get. Surely some of this is extremely uncomfortable to wear, right?

 

_Why don’t you try it out yourself._

 

 Though he feels curiosity slowly rear its head, his desire to blend in, unnoticed by anyone who could be watching, overtakes instantly. He settles for the most conventional outfit he can find, but doesn’t hurry with actually putting it on.

 

He’s about to explore the rest of the apartment when he hears a series of very loud, and very aggressive door knocks.

“Hey!” Someone’s at the door. _BANGBANGBANG_ “We know you’re in there, you’ve been asleep for _ages_!” someone shouts.

 

“And if you don’t get off your arse _right now_ I’m kicking this door down!” Shouts another, much more pissed off voice.

 

“If you break this door I’m kicking you out of the apartment.”

 

“Jesus, it’s just a door…”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, we’re coming in. If you’re still asleep, I swear to god…”

 

The door opens with one sharp click, and in storm three men, all visibly annoyed.

 

“What’s taking you so-“A man, with hair so long and curly it might as well be a cheap wig looks Elliot over. This is it. The ruse is up. They know he’s an impostor, they have to.

 

“…Oh god damn it, you’re not even dressed? See, this is why we’re always late to every bloody thing in existence. Can’t you get up a bit earlier just this once?”

 

He doesn’t know how to respond, whether he should freak out on them, showing whoever’s running this simulation in his head that he’s having none of it. But he’s strangely calm. All the panic he’s had before washes away, and for a brief moment, he entertains the idea of playing along.

 

Suddenly, something falls into place. He knows what to do.

 

“Well _usually_ you have to pay to see me strip, don’t think I’m making an exception just because you’re my bandmates.” He grins playfully, before grabbing some more clothes from the closet.

 

That seems to alleviate the mood somewhat, as the blond one, most pissed-off-looking out of the three, bursts with laughter. “Right, as if I’d ever pay for you _,_ Fred.”

 

_Stop calling them that, you already know their names._

 

“Maybe pay to see you wear something normal for once.”

_“_ Oh _please,_ John, the day I start wearing normal clothing is the day Brian shaves his head.”

 

Roger nudges Brian with a wide grin.

 

“Fancy a trim, mate?”

 

Brian, in fact, looks visibly mortified.

 

“ _Nobody’s_ touching the hair.” He points at all of them, dead serious.

 

“You do kind of look like a very weird poodle.” John muses.

 

Roger looks like he’s just discovered the meaning of life. “Oooh, maybe he’s actually a dog who fell asleep in front of a physics book.”

 

“Oh, _shut up_.”

He eventually gives in and laughs, as the others do. Whatever fight they were about to have, it’s long forgotten.

 

“Alright, alright, we’ll give you some privacy, but hurry up, yeah?”  He says, before closing the door.

Elliot’s not exactly sure what just happened to him. But he gets dressed anyway, grabs a pair of sunglasses, and tries to catch up with the rest of the band, and tries not to think about how _weird_ hearing himself say all of that was.

 

On his way out, he notices the empty pack of cigarettes on the counter.

 

He should probably smoke less, it’s taking a toll on his wallet.

 

_Don’t question it._

 

* * *

The way they talk and joke around each other is something he’s never quite experienced before, not with his peers.  He wasn’t good at socializing, and that suited him just fine. Well, at least it used to. As he got older, the bitter realization crept in, and he felt more and more alone. Humans, no matter who they are, all crave human connection. Is this what he’s been missing all along? This normality, the ability to feel at ease somewhere?

 

They all share a flat in a district which he learns is called “Kensington”, in the heart of London, and when they’re not scrambling to practice together or to play at some sort of tiny basement pub, they go to classes at universities, sell antiques, and argue about leaving all sorts of questionable crap on the shared apartment floor.

 

Elliot realizes that playing “Freddie” is little more than social engineering, except he’s eccentric, bold, confident, and everything else he’s never been before. At first putting himself out there feels plastic and fake, and he shrinks from every weird look he gets in public. But slowly, he changes. Despite himself, Elliot enjoys being confident. He still slips up, but most of the time, the universe seems to grant him some sort of pass, and everyone around him moves on without noticing his odd behavior. Roger, Brian and John don’t expect him to be confident and self-assured all of the time, and he can comfortably slip into his usual timid-ness when he needs to. The mask fits him like a glove, and soon he stops being surprised at everything he’s capable of.

 

On a slow autumn day, he notices Brian reading something when he stands up to fix the antennas on the radio.

 

“You’re studying Fortran?” He taps at the glossy book.  
  
Brian looks at him, confused, then back at his reading. “Oh, yeah, sure, it helps to operate computers at the lab. Real bitch to learn though, I can tell you that.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Wordlessly, he slides behind Brian’s chair, to peek at what he’s trying to solve.  His finger glides over to the mistake.

 

“You forgot to call the function. And the way you defined it is wrong.” His voice almost slips into his usual monotone, before he can even notice. “…I think.”  He adds as an afterthought.

 

It’s like he’s been itching to do this. It feels like ages since he has last thought about coding, even longer since he’s touched a keyboard. It doesn’t bother him.

 

Brian checks his “code”, written on a lined sheet of paper (Elliot thinks that must’ve been torturous), with surprise. He fixes the error with a curt nod.

 

“Huh, you’re right. Thanks, Fred.”

 

“Fred“ steps away wordlessly, slumping back into his seat, continuing to fiddle with the radio.

 

“Since when do you know anything about computers?” Brian chuckles. “Have they secretly been letting art majors into the building at night?”

 

He smiles back at Brian. “Maybe. It’s just a hobby of mine, dear.”

 

* * *

 

 

“For the last time, we can’t keep them.”

 

Roger stares, or rather, _glares_ at the two tiny balls of fur in his hands, the kittens very young and curled up to each other in defense, one ginger and one a pale grey. He’s not trying to scare them. But he is trying to stop ~~Fre~~ Elliot from following through with any more stupid ideas.

 

He slouches against the doorway, giving Roger an annoyed stare. “What, you think I should’ve left them on the street?”  
  
“O-of course not! We can find them a new home! It just doesn’t have to be our bloody apartment!” Roger exclaims.

 

“But how can we trust that someone else will take care of them? They’ve already been kicked out once!” He gently places the two kittens, who seem to have fallen asleep despite the noise, on a small rug. “We’re keeping them. Brian’s with me on this.”

 

“I can’t help it Rog, they’re kittens!” Brian yells from another room.

 

Roger sighs in defeat. “And Deaky’s fine with this, or-“

 

“He says he doesn’t care, as long it’s my money that goes towards caring for them.” Which is honestly a lot, knowing John. “Come on, at least pet them. They’re not so bad.”

 

Gingerly, Roger extends his hand, and places it on the orange kitten’s head. They feel soft and delicate, and while Brian is definitely the one with the biggest heart when it comes to animals, Roger’s not a bloody monster.

 

“Fine. But you have to clean up after them.” He murmurs, barely above a whisper to not wake them up.

 

* * *

 

Elliot despises concerts, despises loud people, and especially despises attention. So, when he’s behind the stage door at some pub on a Friday, he doesn’t know what to do.

 

A performance. He should call this off before it’s too late. Before he has to suffer from embarrassment.  It feels wrong: the outrageous clothes he’s wearing, the huge crowds, the lights pointing right at him. But there is an audience out there, waiting for them, and waiting for him. And he cannot back down. Not now.

 

He’s glad that the band is not in the same room as him to see his meltdown.

 

_I can’t do this. IcantIcanIcantIcantIcantIcant- I’m going to mess it all up._

 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice John standing right in the doorway.

 

“Freddie, are you alright?”

 

Elliot leans against the dirty wall. “No, not really. I-I can’t perform like this. I’m not _ready_ , I don’t want to fuck this up for us, I-“  

 

John walks up to him, gaze concerned and soft. “Hey. _Hey_. You’re not going to mess this up. I’ve seen you perform, you’re going to be splendid up there. Trust me.”

 

He looks up at John. “…How do you know that?”

 

Deaky smiles. “You’re Freddie, Freddie Bulsara, that’s how. You’re going to go out there, and fucking kill it, like you always do.”

 

Slow, deep breaths. The room stops spinning. Freddie smiles in return “…Thanks, darling.”

 

John is followed by the rest of the band, Roger fiddling with drumsticks and Brian with his Red Special slung over his shoulder.

 

“All warmed up? We’re on soon.” He asks, looking between Freddie and John.

 

Freddie grins.

 

“We’re ready.”

 

He’s intimidated. The crowd looks starving, yet bored and awaiting. As everyone does the last check for their instruments, he takes it in, the feeling on this stage. It’s new, unlike anything. It’s strong, exhilarating, breathtaking, and yet he’s aware than everything can go wrong in the matter of a few seconds. It’s like the night of the hack, but bigger, flashier, more revealing.

 

As Roger starts to quietly beat the drums, getting louder progressively, he takes one last look at his band, _their_ band, and he knows that he can do this.

 

His first few movements aren’t the most confident, but the crowd doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe it’s the outfit, maybe it’s the way he looks at them, but it seems to do the trick until he gets to know the stage, and his moves gradually become more confident, sauntering and twirling wherever he pleases.

 

He takes the mic stand as the guitars kick in, and adds it to his routine.

 

_“I have sinned dear Father, Father I have sinned_

_Try and help me Father, won’t you let me in? “_

Something flashes in his memory, and he’s filled with passion and rage.

 

_“Liar!_

_Ooo-oh, nobody believes me…”_

_“LIAR!”_

 

The crowd seems to disappear as he gets further and further into the song. He jumps around from John to Roger to Brian, doing all sorts of things he’d usually considering utterly ridiculous, and singing so loud that his lungs are about to burst. All the pent-up anger and frustration he’s harbored over the years bursts out of him like a volcano, and his energy is infectious as the rest of the band progressively becomes enveloped in his craziness. He almost forgets to breathe, as the guitars stop and he makes his way back to John.

 

_“Mama I’m gonna be your slave”_

Maybe he’s never going to escape Mr. Robot.

 

_“Mama, I’m gonna try behave”_

Maybe everything he’s done to destroy Ecorp is pointless.

 

_“Mama I’m gonna be your slave”_

Maybe he’s never getting rid of his demons.

 

_“I’m gonna serve you till your dying day”_

But right now, none of that matters.

****

As he recounts everything he’s had to go through these past few months, he feels cathartic, as if he’s finally giving the cold, unforgiving universe a piece of his mind. Everything that’s been locked away by the chaos of his daily life pours out on the stage, surrounding him, giving him power.

_“Liar, Liar, they never ever let you win_

_Liar, Liar, everything you do is sin  
Liar, nobody believes you_

_Liar, they bring you down before you begin”_

_“Oooh, now let me tell you this”_ He speaks with such clarity, it feels like something out there is listening to him. _“So now you know you could be dead before they let you.”_

The song ends with a bang as Brian and Roger play them out.

He feels complete.

He doesn’t know where Elliot ends and Freddie starts. And that’s okay.

 

People erupt in cheer as the band regains their breath, riding on the high of a successful show. But something feels off.  

 

 _“_ Time to get up!” The crowd cheers.

 

He’s confused.

 

“Time to get up.” Brian gently pats him on his shoulder, before smiling to the crowd.

 

“Time to get up.” A familiar voice, though he can’t quite place it.

 

_Oh. Time to wake up._

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up, and he’s back.

  _in the year of ‘39_

The prison guard stares at him for about two seconds, indifferent, before making her way to the next cell.  The bed is cold and harsh, though he doesn’t know why he expects anything different. Softly rubbing circles into his neck, Elliot sits on the bed, preparing himself for the day.  

  
_here the ship sailed out, into the blue and sunny mourn_   
_the sweetest sight ever seen_

 

Throughout the day, he’s humming a song that he can’t remember the name of.

 

As the day trickles by, he senses that Mr. Robot will be back shortly. He’s not happy about it, not satisfied with himself, with the situation, but he feels better. Much better. He keeps humming, to keep the rhythm going. Leon seems to recognize the song, but he never says anything, and Elliot is left to wonder just what ear worm graced his ears this morning.

 

_and the night followed day  
and the storytellers say_

 

“Seems that havin’ something to read is really doing you good, cuz. Better than all that Adderral.” Leon remarks shortly, before having another spoonful of mush and continuing to talk about Seinfeld. Elliot can only agree in silence.

Later that day, he absentmindedly flips through _Queen: As it Began_ , the only book Leon said he could get him at the time. He never particularly cared for such things, but reading about the insane happenings and stories other people got up to certainly distracts him from his own, less than admirable adventures. Some of the things he reads feel so real, it’s almost like Elliot himself was there. He supposes it’s just good writing.

 

Absentmindedly, he wonders about all of the “cd’s” in his room. When did he stop collecting actual music? He should start doing that again, when all of this is over. Maybe Darlene still has his old ones.

 

_and they bring good news, of a world so newly born_

_  
but their hearts so heavily weigh_

 

The song refuses to leave his head even as the lights turn off, and he prepares to sleep. To Mr. Robot, the song seems familiar, but for the love of him, he can’t tell where Elliot got it from. He senses him there, standing in the corner. But instead of the usual taunting, the only thing he gets is silence, and Elliot drifts off to a deep sleep, content with it.

 

_for so many years have gone, though I’m older but a year_

_your mother’s eyes, from your eyes, cry to me._

He doesn’t see Mr Robot the following day, and something tells him that he won’t be coming back for a long time.

_don’t you hear my call, though you’re many years away_

_don’t you hear me calling you?_

_write your letters in the sand_

_for the day I take your hand_

_in the land that our grandchildren knew_

 

* * *

 

 

There’s not much to do in prison. So sometimes, Elliot dreams.

_all your letters in the sand_

_cannot heal me like your hand_

_for my life, still ahead_

_pity me._

 

**Author's Note:**

> some trivia: 
> 
> FORTRAN is a programming language, primarily used in physics. It was originally developed in the 1950s, and was heavily used in programming until the invention of languages like BASIC. Since it's still used in physics courses today, I figured that's one of the things Brian would be studying in the 70s. 
> 
> Some of Freddie's first cats were named Tom and Jerry, whom he shared with Mary.


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